


Laundry Day

by EnduringParadox



Series: Diarmute Modern AU Adventures [1]
Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkwardness, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:01:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24273955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnduringParadox/pseuds/EnduringParadox
Summary: Modern AU. David and Diarmuid live in the same building and often do their laundry at the same time. A mix-up results in David getting a pair of Diarmuid's underwear. Now he has to get them back to him without looking like a creep, which is easier said than done because this whole situation is really out of David's wheelhouse.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Series: Diarmute Modern AU Adventures [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1763965
Comments: 12
Kudos: 46





	Laundry Day

**Author's Note:**

> A silly idea inspired by learning that the monks at Cluny Abbey had their names sewn into their undergarments.

Over the past few months David had learned a lot about Diarmuid.

Every Tuesday they did their laundry in the basement of their apartment building. David lived on the fourth floor and when he did his laundry he settled in the corner of the room and read. It seemed more sensible to him than making multiple trips up and down the stairs and besides, he got uneasy leaving his belongings out in the open. Diarmuid lived on the third floor and always stumbled into the room struggling underneath the weight of a basket as heavy as he was, but he was small and slight so that wasn’t saying much. From time to time David entertained the thought that he could probably pick the young man up with one arm.

At first Diarmuid had been polite but careful not to make too much noise. David’s half-hearted skimming of magazines and paperbacks seemed to give off the impression that he’d stolen away to the laundry room for peace and quiet. Diarmuid would hum to himself then realize what he was doing and stop, sheepish, as if his voice was adding to the cacophony created by the rattling of decades old washing machines and the footsteps of those on the floor above them. The first few times he’d asked David a question he’d looked discouraged by the monosyllabic answers he’d received, but once he realized that David would respond to anything addressed directly to him—however briefly—he’d become much more lively and cheerful.

David had learned that Diarmuid was two years out of university and that this was the farthest he’d ever been from home and that his roommate was rarely in their apartment so it was kind of lonely, but that was all right because Diarmuid often had company over. When his father visited, which was frequently, they always tried to cook something new for dinner and sometimes it went well and sometimes they had to order pizza, which was still enjoyable. He was involved in so many things that David still wasn’t completely certain what he did to pay his rent but some of his activities included helping the local church with paperwork, tutoring students at the community college, taking dance classes, and in the evenings sitting down on his couch with a pen and paper, turning the TV to the cooking channel, and furiously taking notes that were later stuck on his refrigerator with magnets.

David had also learned that he enjoyed the sound of Diarmuid’s voice as well as the way Diarmuid fretted over his sore muscles after a day of construction work, and that the young man seemed to like his company even though David rarely had anything useful or interesting to contribute besides a nod or a murmur of acknowledgement.

But then came this evening. Nearly everyone in the building had decided to do their laundry at the exact same time and David had been forced to wait for Diarmuid’s clothes and sheets to finish before shoving his own into the same machines. They were both in a rush and David had received only a quick greeting and a smile. Afterwards, back in his own apartment, David had put away his clean laundry and found in the pile a pair of very small, short, dark red boxer briefs. A closer inspection revealed the name _Diarmuid_ stitched neatly on the inside with black thread, and so David learned what Diarmuid wore underneath his clothes.

He wasn’t quite sure what to do with this new information. Or the underwear.

\------

It’d be rude to just toss them out. And Diarmuid might know he had them because David had done his laundry straight after him. What if he came asking about it and David told him he’d just thrown out his property? Or worse, he thought that David was lying and had—intentionally kept them, or something.

He debated over leaving it in his mailbox but ultimately decided against it. David wasn’t sure it was legal to mail someone underwear. Even if it was their own. And even if the mailing consisted of pinning a note to it, walking down to the lobby, and shoving it on the shelf with the corresponding apartment number. Besides, it was too personal an item to just leave out there in public. Someone else might see it. That another person might then have knowledge of Diarmuid’s undergarments did not sit well with him.

David made the decision to just walk down the stairs, knock on the door, and hand it over to Diarmuid himself. In a box, of course. He’d thought about a bag but that seemed to imply its contents were gross, or garbage. And they weren’t. The contents. They weren’t David’s style, really, but he didn’t doubt they looked good on Diarmuid. The dark red color would make his pale, freckled skin stand out, and the short length would put his legs on display.

Christ, he had to get rid of them.

\------

The next day after he finished his shift at the construction site he went to a craft store and bought a small box. There was tissue paper in the aisle, every color one could think of, and David considered grabbing some to line the box with but that would probably also be really weird and definitely inappropriate because you didn’t just wrap up another man’s underwear in pretty paper and hand it to him. Especially if you were just friendly acquaintances at best.

No. Plain box, plain statement: “Found something of yours in my laundry.” And a plain note written in pen on a piece of paper ripped from a spiral bound notebook that reiterated what had been previously verbalized: _Laundry mix-up. Sorry._ He could say his goodbyes and be out of Diarmuid’s sight when he opened the box and realized it was his underwear and the whole incident would never be mentioned again.

But in the time it took to go down the flight of stairs and walk to Diarmuid’s apartment doubt had already set in. Jesus Christ. He was nervous like a high school kid getting ready to knock on his date’s door, corsage in hand. God, why did he go with the box? At least he hadn’t gotten the tissue paper, or wrapped it in ribbon or something. He took a deep breath. Yeah, all right, this was awkward. Awkward situation all around. No big deal. Life was a bunch of awkward moments strung together. Sometimes the moment was handing back a beautiful young man’s underwear after you kept it in your apartment for a day and a half. David would get the situation over with and only think about it when it kept him awake at night.

Fuck, he should’ve just shoved it in the mailbox.

He knocked on the door with more force than he’d intended, bracing himself to greet Diarmuid, hand him the box, and all but run back to his apartment to safety. But the man who answered the door, a dishtowel in hand, was not Diarmuid. He wasn’t quite elderly but was getting there, with a deeply lined face and graying hair and beard. He still stood tall; he was only a bit shorter than David. He looked puzzled.

“Hello,” he said, “Can I help you?

This had not been part of the plan. David took a moment to compose the very erudite response, “Diarmuid around?”

“He’s out on a grocery run. We’re attempting blancmange but we spent most of the heavy cream making Fettucine Alfredo, so.” He shrugged, then clapped the palm of his head to his forehead. “Ah, right, well. Forgive me. I’m Ciaran, Diarmuid’s father.” He held out his hand to shake.

“David,” replied David. He didn’t take Ciaran’s hand because he’d suddenly gone tense with the realization that he was talking to a man while holding said man’s son’s underwear in a small gift box tucked underneath his arm and it was taking all of David’s power to fight off an impending brain aneurysm.

Something like recognition sparked in Ciaran’s eyes. He dropped his arm, frowned, and squinted at David. “Right. Yes. _You’re_ David. Can I help you?” he asked again.

After a long pause David handed him the box. “Just, uh, returning this. It’s Diarmuid’s.”

“Oh, well. I’ll give it to him. Something important?”

“It’s Diarmuid’s,” David repeated.

Ciaran’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t drugs or something, is it? Contraband?” His tone was light but the expression on his face remained serious. David remembered that he had yet to shower from a day working in construction, and that his unkempt beard, well-worn shirt with accompanying sweat stains, dirty, dust covered jeans, and general nervous, fidgety attitude was probably suspicious and rather worrying.

So, to allay Ciaran’s fears he replied, “Uh, no, sir. Diarmuid’s underwear,” before he could stop himself. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them the older man’s face was red, his mouth slack with shock.

“Oh, I see, so, you and Diarmuid are—well, I mean, he’s told me about you, but I didn’t know that the two of you were—but he doesn’t have to tell me everything, he’s a grown man—“

Christ. He couldn’t leave Ciaran thinking his son had been hiding a relationship from him. “No, we’re not together or anything,” David said, desperately, “He doesn’t even know I had it—“ The expression on Ciaran’s face darkened and David’s brain caught up to his mouth and he immediately wished he would just drop dead on the welcome mat in front of the apartment.

“ _What._ ”

If a hole to the fieriest pits of Hell suddenly opened up on the floor beside them, David would have gladly jumped in to escape Ciaran’s cold stare. But neither deity nor devil were merciful and so he closed his eyes again, took another deep, shuddering breath, and attempted to explain.

“Laundry. There’s a laundry room—shared, in the building.”

“Yes,” said Ciaran.

“Used the same machine right after Diarmuid, and, uh.”

“Right,” said Ciaran.

“Knew it was his because it has his name—anyway. Just returning it.”

“Thank you very much, David,” said Ciaran with a tone of voice that suggested that he wouldn’t be upset if he watched David get hit by a truck and break every bone in his body.

David jerked his thumb over his shoulder, like a complete fucking moron. “Just gonna head on back, then,” he choked out. He was halfway to his apartment before he could even hear Ciaran stiffly wish him a good evening.

\------

David sat at his kitchen table, head in his hands. He had resisted throwing himself at the nearest bottle of alcohol because he needed his head clear enough to figure out how to avoid Diarmuid for the rest of his life, or at least until he could find another country to move to. He’d have to leave through the fire escape each morning. And he needed to find a Laundromat close to the apartment building. A weekly walk might be nice.

He was hours into planning these major life changes when there came a knock on the door. It was a soft, tentative thing and did not repeat. He considered pretending that he hadn’t heard it at all, but decided that while he could carefully avoid Diarmuid he was not capable of deliberately ignoring him. The chair’s legs screeched across the floor as he pushed himself from the table.

David opened the door and stared down at Diarmuid, who stared back pink-faced and fidgeting, shifting his weight from foot to foot, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets.

“Um, hi, David,” he said. “I’m glad you answered. I just wanted to apologize for, uh, whatever my dad might have said to you. He’s pretty protective and sometimes he kind of jumps to conclusions about guys I like. I know you didn’t mean anything by it—the, um, laundry, I mean. It was really nice of you. I think most people wouldn’t have bothered—“

“Had your name on it,” David mumbled. Diarmuid’s face grew pinker.

“Oh, that! Um, I’ve been sewing my name on my clothes since I was a kid—not—not just my underwear. God. It’s kind of weird, I guess. I learned sewing from my dad. His family was a whole lot bigger than ours—lots of brothers—so everyone made sure to label all their clothes so there wasn’t anything going missing, you know? I guess since it’s only me there’s not much of a point—“

But then something in Diarmuid’s previous stream of consciousness struck David. “Wait. The guys you like?”

He watched, fascinated, as Diarmuid turned the color of a rose. “Oh, God, I hope I haven’t made you uncomfortable. I know I don’t hide it well. I’m sorry. It must be really hard to sit and do your laundry when I’m just there, like, mooning over you. Ugh, and then my dad thought—“

“He said you talked about me,” David recalled.

“Oh my _God_ , nothing inappropriate or weird, I swear. Just that, you know, a really sweet guy lives in my building and we talk sometimes.”

Every new sentence from Diarmuid’s mouth sent David’s mind reeling. Incredulous, he asked for clarification, “You like me and think I’m sweet?”

“Of course. How could I not?”

There were many words that had been used to describe David throughout his life but sweet was not one of them. And here this small, slight young man with a mop of brown curls and eyes like a fawn was staring up at him bashfully and telling him not only was he sweet, but that he liked him. _Mooned over him_ , even.

“Your dad thought we were dating,” David said.

Diarmuid sighed. “Yes. Sorry.”

“Do you want to?”

“Want to what?”

“Go on a date.” At the shy, hopeful look spreading across Diarmuid’s face, David added, more confidently, “Out to dinner. So I can listen to you talk. I love listening to you talk.”

Diarmuid’s smile was so bright it put the sun to shame.

They agreed that next Tuesday night, after getting their laundry done, they could go to the Italian place down the road and eat and talk for as long as the restaurant was open. David was pretty sure they’d be making it a routine.


End file.
